


Capturing the Moment

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Photographs, Smittenjolras, Smittentaire, Tipsyjolras, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire and Enjolras are tipsy and flirty at Cosette and Marius's wedding; Grantaire drags Enjolras into a photobooth to commemorate the moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capturing the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little snippet for [impetusofadream](http://impetusofadream.tumblr.com/), who asked for 'e/R photobooth silly shenanigans'. Hope you like?
> 
> Despite the alcohol, there is not even the slightest hint of dub-con.

Enjolras is in a suit and he is _very_ tipsy. Grantaire is going to take advantage of these two things whilst he can; he just hasn’t figured out _how_ yet. (Or rather, the opportunities presented are abound, and he has yet to decide which to pick.)

Cosette and Marius’s wedding is a riotous blur of laughter and dancing, and Enjolras is actually doing _both_ of these things. That’s possibly because of the champagne though. “I can foxtrot,” he’s telling Courfeyrac with great dignity. “I can foxtrot _really well_.”

“You can waltz,” says Courfeyrac, who thought it would be funny to ask Enjolras to dance and is now regretting it, having had his feet trodden on at least three times since. “You cannot foxtrot. A foxtrot is not just a waltz with an extra beat, Enjolras.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” mutters Enjolras petulantly. “I can foxtrot… like a fox.” Courfeyrac graciously does not laugh in his face.

Grantaire sweeps up and bows extravagantly. “I’ll foxtrot with you, Enjolras.”

“ _Someone_ appreciates me,” says Enjolras, and curls himself up in Grantaire’s arms. (A tipsy Enjolras is also a very handsy one, which is why Grantaire talked every single one of Les Amis into making multiple toasts.)

Courfeyrac snorts and ruffles Enjolras’s hair. “Grantaire would still appreciate you if you decided to roll around in the cake and call it a quickstep.”

“I would,” says Grantaire helpfully.

“And that’s why I’m with him and not you,” says Enjolras as Grantaire runs his hands down the back of Enjolras’s tailored suit to cup his arse. He’s been wanting to do it all day, but Enjolras wouldn’t let him before, insisting that they would get it mussed up and if he was going to shell out an exorbitant amount for a tailored suit instead of donating the money, it was at least going to look fantastic.

It’s not so much a foxtrot or even a waltz as a very complex game of whack-a-mole wherein Grantaire tries to get his feet out from under Enjolras’s before he steps down, but Enjolras is trying with the Furrowed Brow of Concentration that he gives to particularly perplexing problems like when Les Amis are underperforming, so Grantaire just watches him try, and doesn’t say anything.

They swirl around near Cosette and Marius, who are nauseatingly cute together. Marius has been pink since the afternoon when, instead of waiting, Cosette dipped Marius down in a flail of limbs and kissed him first. Cosette has been radiant for the last – well, she’s Cosette so she’s been radiant since they met her.

“Have you been in the photobooth yet?” Cosette calls as they sway past them. She raises her eyebrows at Grantaire, and looks at Enjolras. Grantaire grins back conspiratorially. Cosette has the best ideas.

“What photobooth?” asks Enjolras.

~

The queue for the photobooth has been long all evening, but mere acquaintances and guests with children have mostly gone home by now. Grantaire tugs Enjolras into the photobooth amidst his protests after only a ten minute wait. “There’s been a professional photographer and cameraman taking videos and photos all day, R. Why do we need _more_ photos?” (He’s just grumpy because the wedding cameraman has immortalised Enjolras on video catching the bouquet with an alarmed expression and immediately throwing it away as if it were on fire.)

“These are pictures of just us, doing what we want,” says Grantaire, leaning over and popping a sweet kiss onto his cheek for the first shot. “Also, I want some pictures of you in this suit.” The next shot is one of Grantaire pulling Enjolras onto his lap by his tie.

“Don’t think you don’t look delicious too,” says Enjolras, tracing his fingers along Grantaire’s lapel. They’re wearing differently cut suits – Enjolras being in Marius’s wedding party with an Italian cut that shows off his waist, and Grantaire in Cosette’s with a British cut that emphasises his shoulders – and somehow Grantaire is distracted by the way Enjolras is looking at him that the shutter clicks for the next photo before he has time to think of another pose.

“Come on,” says Grantaire, trying to break the mood. He’s not good at being serious; it makes him nervous. “Let’s do some silly faces. Like the expression you make when I make you model for me.”

“What expression?” asks Enjolras as his face automatically scrunches into poorly disguised panic.

Grantaire laughs, and the shutter clicks on them. “That one.”

“That’s not a face,” Enjolras protests.

“Enjolras. It really, really is. It’s what your face does when you’re trying to do something because it will make me happy, but you not-so-secretly hate having to do it.”

“I don’t hate modelling for you,” says Enjolras, who lies about as well as a sieve holds water, and kisses Grantaire, slipping his hands under the suit jacket.

Grantaire can feel his warm hands massage his waist over the thin fabric of the shirt, and he slides his hands up Enjolras’s thigh in retaliation. “I know you’re just trying to distract me,” he whispers, sing-song.

“Is it working?” asks Enjolras archly, pulling Grantaire’s shirt out of his trousers. Honestly, Grantaire’s amazed that he’s lasted this long without unrucking it or spilling something over himself. Enjolras’s light touch is teasing against his skin and he flicks open all of Enjolras’s buttons, pulling it off without yanking at the tie as Enjolras slides his tongue against Grantaire’s. (The tie is red and stark against Enjolras’s pale skin, and it is going to be the _last thing_ Grantaire takes off him today.)

“Oh my god.” That’s Courfeyrac’s voice outside the booth that Grantaire can hear.

“Don’t _interrupt them_ ,” whispers Jehan; Grantaire and Enjolras break apart, flushing.

“This is _gold_ ,” says Courfeyrac as Enjolras whips open the curtain to glare at them. Courfeyrac freezes, caught out with a strip of photos in his hand; Grantaire had forgotten all about that and now Enjolras’s descent into shirtlessness is chronicled in stages in Courfeyrac’s hand.

Enjolras leans backward, trusting Grantaire to hold onto his hips and not let him fall, and makes a half-hearted swipe for it. “Courf, give me that.” (Grantaire grits his teeth, because Enjolras leaning backwards just grinds his arse into Grantaire’s lap.

“That’s certainly enough special photos of us, I guess,” says Grantaire dryly, finishing their session.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” says Jehan as he fishes out the latest strip. He points at the very last picture which ends in Enjolras’s bare chest arched beautifully backwards as he reaches out of the booth, Grantaire’s eyes fluttered shut in a combination of pain and pleasure. “You should make copies for us.”

“No, he should not,” says Enjolras, buttoning his shirt up quickly, his face burning. “Come on, Grantaire.” He makes to pull Grantaire out of the booth, but Courfeyrac and Jehan bundle in instead, plonking Enjolras back onto the bench. (Grantaire takes the moment to hastily rearrange his trousers.)

“Let’s take some of us all,” says Jehan, “I’ve already called the others to come on over.” He slides onto Enjolras’s lap, physically preventing him from leaving, and Courfeyrac sits the other side of Grantaire, making him shuffle up to sit pressed to Enjolras’s leg from hip to knee.

Sure enough, the rest of Les Amis appear in short order. The booth is definitely not made for this many people, because Musichetta ends up sitting on Bossuet’s shoulders with Joly tucked in front. Bahorel is kneeling between Grantaire’s knees, popping up only for the actual photos like a ridiculous jack-in-the-box; Combeferre presses his face between Enjolras and Grantaire, and Eponine is sitting on _his_ shoulders. Cosette ends up sprawled across Jehan’s lap with her feet tucked under Grantaire’s far leg and Enjolras’s face is a startling shade of pink but even he knows better than to mention Cosette’s weight, and Marius ends up mostly outside the booth, falling in on the pile of bodies most ungainly.

Musichetta and Joly have been whispering about something, and just as Courfeyrac yells, “Say cheese!” and takes ten photos in quick succession, they reach out and tickle as many people as they can.

The booth rocks dangerously as everyone starts screaming and squirming and Grantaire narrowly avoids getting a knee in the face. He has about five different people leaning on him, swearing and panting, and at least two elbows sticking into him but somewhere in the ruckus, Enjolras’s hand found his and they’re both stuck under Cosette so they can’t let go even if they want to.

Combeferre’s fallen over between them so Grantaire can’t see anything more than wisps of blond hair, but he feels Enjolras’s hand squeeze his, and grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](defractum.tumblr.com)!


End file.
